


The Conduit Map

by Eileniessa



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Major Character Injury, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25227967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eileniessa/pseuds/Eileniessa
Summary: If over 600 years of experience had taught her anything, anything useful mind, it was that life was a bitch. A big bad bitch with beady red eyes, matted fur and a serious chip on its shoulder. Tissaia De Vries, Rectoress of Aretuza Academy for young ladies, Archmistress of magic, Member of the Chapter of the Gift and the Art, and Queen of everything has its places and no that is not where that grimoire goes, move it to the left, no my left, just leave it there I’ll do it myself, was reminded of that piece of wisdom one dreary afternoon in autumn when she woke up tied to a stake.
Relationships: Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 31
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brazenedMinstrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brazenedMinstrel/gifts).



If over 600 years of experience had taught her anything, anything useful mind, it was that life was a bitch. A big bad bitch with beady red eyes, matted fur and a serious chip on its shoulder. Tissaia De Vries, Rectoress of Aretuza Academy for young ladies, Archmistress of magic, Member of the Chapter of the Gift and the Art, and Queen of everything has its places and no that is not where that grimoire goes, move it to the left, no my left, just leave it there I’ll do it myself, was reminded of that piece of wisdom one dreary afternoon in autumn when she woke up tied to a stake.

Yesterday had started like any other day, which was just the way she liked it.

Tissaia woke up at the crack of dawn to a bowl of warm porridge drowned in honey sitting on the three-foot table near the arched window that had expertly crafted dragon heads for feet and a swirling pattern of a tail covered in scales carved into the top. It had been a gift from one of the first young women she had trained and the sorceress in question had sent her almost a dozen pieces of furniture and a small trunk worth of books and artefacts over the past three centuries that she had come across in her travels across the world. The life of a court mage had not been suited for her, she was opposed to sitting still and had a disposition closer to that of a tinker than a sorceress, it was a miracle that Tissaia had ever managed to get her to stay in Aretuza long enough to ascend.

Rather than be confined to a life in the palace, from which she would have inevitably fled and left behind a messy political disaster that Tissaia would likely have been called upon to clean up (because if one thing had not changed in three hundred years it was the chapter’s inability to do anything for themselves), Tissaia had directed her student towards research and the pursuit of knowledge. Unsurprisingly, the knowledge that she had chosen to pursue, which was, in short, the culture of magic, had taken her around the world and to places that Tissaia herself had only read about from the warm confines of her library. The draconian inspired piece of furniture in question had come from a city in Zerrikania that had the region’s largest and most grandeur temple dedicated to the cult of the Divine Dragons that, not that it had to be said, worshipped the scaly and fire breathing creatures from which their name derived.

Tissaia took her porridge in an unimaginably soft and plump armchair from Toussaint that, to this day, she denied the very existence of because she certainly did not enjoy such luxuries as soft cushions that made you think you died and gone to the afterlife (figuratively speaking, of course, she didn’t subscribe to such superstitions nonsense), thank you very much. She washed her breakfast down with juice, orange juice because it was the third day of Velen, tomorrow it would be apple juice, and sent the dishes to the kitchen. Then, she stripped down and took a bath in the ceramic tub in the small stone washroom off her living quarters because the rugs and carpets in her other rooms were worth more than a thousand piglets and she was not going to get them even the slightest bit wet.

When the full-length mirror beside her dressing table assured her that she was suitably presentable, meaning impeccably dressed and combed down to the last hair, Tissaia went to observe her students. Typically, she would have had her own lessons to teach but she had been excused from those duties for the past two full moons. Aside from cleaning up the political turmoil that had been left in the wake of Sodden and the loss of thirteen of their mages, accounting for near a sixth of their numbers, Tissaia had been warned against returning to class while her body, her lungs in particular, were recovering from the damage that had been caused by the dimeritium powder she had inhaled. She says warned but in truth it had been bordering more on the side of a suggestion than a caution because nobody in their right mind (which therefore excluded such people as Yennefer) dared tell her what to do, let alone make threats against her.

A foreign invader that reacted with the magic that had become a part of her, Tissaia’s body had fought off the dimeritium powder like it was an infection. The benefits of such a response was that she was still breathing and Aretuza wouldn’t need a new Rectoress quite yet. The downside was that she had started to feel her age, all six hundred years of it. She had been bedridden for five days and trapped inside the small world of her living quarters for two weeks after. Her trips around Aretuza to watch over the other instructor’s lessons were more of an excuse to stretch her legs and strengthen her muscles than to make sure that her pupils’ educational needs were being met in her absence.

Tissaia was wheezing when she returned to her living space in the third tallest tower in Aretuza in the early hours of the afternoon, the tallest was The Tower of The Gulls and the second tallest was the observation tower, and had intended to collapse into bed. Thus, she was far from pleased, upon opening the door to her office, to see that today was going to be an exceptionally long one.

A pinprick of golden light was being projected onto the stone wall behind her desk and there was only one thing in her draws that was capable of that magic. After fixing herself a cool glass of water to soothe her sore throat and tight chest Tissaia resigned herself to sorting out what promised to be a tiring affair and sat at her desk. She unlocked the draw using an invisible key hidden in a secret compartment under her desk and placed the source of the light and her mounting headache onto her desk.

It was a map, one of the continent and Skellige to be precise, and aside from Tissaia and some of the tomes locked in the deepest, darkest and usually dankest part of Aretuza’s library, it was the oldest magical thing within a hundred miles of Gors Velen. It had been created by the first Rectoress of Aretuza and Tissaia’s mentor, Archmistress Mayfair, a woman best known for her fine taste in wine and love of psychological warfare, a pastime Tissaia had witnessed first-hand in the classroom. The map was awash with water-resistant and flame-resistant enchantments and any other form of resistance that you could think of (including alcohol resistance). It was covered in its entirety with the names and locations of cities, towns and small wayward villages with names that could only be glanced through a magnifying glass or, for the show-offs in the room, a sight enhancement spell.

Tissaia skimmed over the map and tapped her finger near Rivia. It was a city close to the border with Nilfgaard and the biggest settlement within half a day’s journey of the ten-mile radius spot of light that the map was producing. It covered two known villages bordering the Avonbel forest at the south foot of the Mahakam mountains. Direfall and The Moors. In one of those villages was a young girl who needed her help.

The enchanted map, or the conduit map as Mayfair had named it, helped the Rectoress track and locate girls with magical potential. When one such person connected to, or more accurately pulled and threatened to tear, the source then the map produced a spot of light in a radius around where the conduit moment had occurred. It was then up to the Rectoress, currently one Tissaia De Vries, to narrow down and pinpoint the location and the target. That meant casting a series of divination spells that were hard and exhausting to do at the best of times, and these were far from the best of times. Truly, they were probably bordering on not quite the worst of times but still pretty shitty times, to say the least.

With a wave of her hand, Tissaia killed the light. She put the map back in her draw, got up, and went to her medicinal cabinet. She needed a smoke. Yes, she knew it was bad for her lungs and would hinder her recovery, but she knew she would need it. After she became suitably relaxed, Tissaia eased her breathing by momentarily enhancing the enchantment on the brooch pinned to her undergarments that Yennefer, in her boredom, had made for her and her wrinkled lungs, as she had so tacitly put it. Then, she set to work.

It was of utmost importance that she brought the girl to Aretuza as swiftly as possible. Magic, left unchecked, could have a catastrophic impact not just on those unfortunate to be in the vicinity of the young mage, but to the position and safety of magical practitioners the world over. As things were their relationship with non-mages was tenuous and it wouldn’t take make of a push to have people rushing for torches and pitchforks. No, Tissaia thought, she could not wait for her strength to return before recovering the girl. It was in everyone’s best interests that she collected her as soon as possible, and it would do her well to have something to take her mind off things and to have an excuse to leave Aretuza for a day.

* * *

The divination spells had taken up the rest of her afternoon and most of her evening but Tissaia had successfully determined the source of the conduit moment - Direfall. It was a small village that she was not acquainted with, meaning it had likely been established within the last few decades because that was when she’d last caught up on the continent’s new settlements. She crawled into bed after dinner and slept like a log, be it a small and dainty one, till her body clock woke her up with the sun of a new day. Rather than rise with it as was her custom, Tissaia broke from her routine and stayed in bed for another few hours – these were unprecedented times. She needed the extra rest to recover the strength that she had spent last night.

When she woke for the second time Tissaia got up. Her porridge was cold and her juice warm and she spent a little chaos (just a little) adjusting their temperatures before settling down in the armchair. She bathed quickly and selected some suitably warm travelling clothes and had some bread, cheese and dried meat sent up from the kitchen which she packed into a small satchel with a nightgown.

She planned to open a portal into Rivia and hire a horse and carriage to ride to the village. After collecting the girl they would head back to the city and rest their overnight and in the morning Tissaia would take them back to Aretuza with a portal. Normally her trips lasted a day, but opening two portals in one day over a distance of who knows how many miles would test her strength a little too much for her liking. She was probably capable of doing it, but not without breaking out in a sweaty, wheezing mess and that was not how she wanted her students to see her. The cold, untouchable Rectoress of stone was preferable.

The owner of the staples a little outside the walls of Rivia was reluctant to loan his horse and cart to Tissaia at first, whether it was because she was a woman or because he had an inclination about her profession and thought she was going to sacrifice his animal and use its heart in some cruel and purely fictional blood magic ritual, Tissaia could not be certain, but he was more than willing to accommodate her request once he saw the size of her purse. The cart was small and had been intended to hold six to eight grown men but, due to its state of disrepair, would likely take no more than four at a push, if they shaved off their beards. It smelt like old men and bad ale and Tissaia wrinkled her nose when she climbed aboard and set the dapple-grey horse to a walk. It was far from the quality of transportation that she usually settled for, but desperate times called for desperate methods and she could not afford to be picky. Tissaia suspected that if she was gone from Aretuza too long someone, one name, in particular, sprung to mind, would come looking for her.

After three miles Tissaia broke off from the main road between Rivia and Scala and headed north-west. That day was well underway when she rolled into Direfall. It was situated on the outskirts of the forest near a small cliff and consisted of a hunting lodge, a few farms scattered here and there, and a cluster of seven to ten ramshackle and slanted wooden houses all one storey tall that looked like a strong breeze would knock them over, or perhaps just someone leaning against the side. Judging by the state of the wood there hadn’t been any recently constructed houses in the past twenty-odd years, though it seemed that the inhabitants of Direfall were on the way to fixing that.

There was a skeleton of a two-storey house with a stone foundation and slots for windows standing on the outside of the mess of wooden huts. Either the village had stumbled into some small fortune, iron in the hills perhaps, or some traveller passing their way had taken pity upon them and taught them the craft of carpentry, masonry, and home building because Goodness knows the state of the village boasted no skill in the crafts but rather sheer dumb luck nothing had fallen down, or nothing last night, at least. A few dirty villagers with toothy grins, chicken arms and potato sacks for trousers stopped hammering in nails to what would be the second floor and watched her drive up to the village. Up to, not into. Two men standing side by side would struggle to walk between the gaps in the houses.

Tissaia pulled her horse to a stop a few metres from the new house, hopped down (yes hopped, she couldn’t find a cart with a step), and walked to the centre of the village. There she saw Direfall’s other crafts project. A small wooden platform of recently sanded wood yet to be stained by more than a few pair of boots and a night of rain was in the middle of the circle of houses. If Tissaia had to hazard a guess, she would say that some noble of limited power and practically insignificant tile must have taken up residence in the village and likely leadership, hence the command for a new house and a stage upon which they could address the people. It wasn’t unheard of for small nobleman to take a chance on little, out of the way villages and hoped they struck rich and, being at the base of the mountain and the edge of the woods, Direfall did have potential. Either that or he was on the run, which, considering the state of things around here, seemed more likely.

Tissaia stood by the stairs to the platform and waited. There was nothing remarkable about the man who greeted her. He was tall and lanky and had a face that looked like he’s been hit in the face by a shovel as a child, which wasn’t entirely unlikely, who knows what young boys did for fun these days. He was elderly in every sense of the word, wrinkles, age spots, thinning white hair, and a look about him that brought the phrase ‘back in the good old days’ to mind, and he was dressed in plain but well-made clothes of dark grey and green.

“Greetings, Madam Witch,” the old man said after taking off his woollen cap. “We have been anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

“The girl, where is she?” Tissaia asked. She was not in the mood for pleasantries or idle conversation. The urge to cough was already eating at her lungs and she feared that if she dallied too long or spoke too much then she would lose her voice, and her reputation.

“This way,” said the old man.

Tissaia followed him to a house opposite the platform. He opened the door and gestured for her to go inside. Somehow, the walls looked more slanted on the inside of the hut than on the outside. A deerskin was draped across the floorboards which were rotten and cracked and would probably send you through the floor and into the foundations if you put one foot wrong. Tissaia seriously considered demanding that he go in and fetch the girl himself but that would require talking and standing outside in the wind. Pinching her lips shut Tissaia stepped over the threshold. Above her, something jingled, like loose change in a nobleman’s breast pocket that he used to tip the wench, and Tissaia saw a taut rope running across the wall and into the adjacent room at a downwards angle. Tissaia followed the rope and looked up.

“Now,” the old man said behind her.

The rope went slack and with her head turned to the sky Tissaia got a good view of the large net being suspended from the ceiling above the door before it dropped onto her head. It was heavy enough to make her knees buckle and she fell on all fours. A kick to the stomach courtesy of a young man with a dimple on his chin knocked her down the rest of the way and left her sprawled out on the floor liked the skinned doe. At least it hadn’t had to bear the humiliation of getting bested by someone that boasted less than half its brain cells.

Gasping, Tissaia tried to summon chaos to her fingertips but rather than blasting the house to smithereens she only succeeded in making her hands glow with peached-coloured light and scaring the villagers enough to earn a smack on the back of the head with what felt like the butt of a sword. She’d felt more than one of those against her temple. Life as a Rectoress wasn’t all classrooms and fancy balls, you know. Not to be so easily deterred, Tissaia tried again but her efforts produced much the same effect they had before, minus the smack. She knew it wasn’t through lack of strength. She could feel the magic inside her but had no way of accessing it or channelling it through her fingers. That left two possibilities, and seeing as she had not felt another mage’s aurora on arrival nor ever encountered someone whose power was great enough to suppress her own, that left option number two.

Tissaia hooked her fingers into the net and felt something resembling a static shot. When she withdrew her hand and held it by her face, she noted that it was slightly warm and covered in some strange, slightly sticky substance. The net was not made of rope or thread but of metal. A dark, almost black metal tinged with silver specks. Dimeritium, but not in a form or state that she had ever seen. If the net had been made rung for rung with dimeritium that the ceiling of the hut would not have supported its weight and where the metal was touching her skin it would have burnt her, which it hadn’t. This was something else, something like the powder she had inhaled, but worse.

The net, which was probably made out of iron, had been coated in what could best be described as dimeritium paint. Fine powder had been stuck to the rungs and used to create a net that successfully nullified her magic without using more dimeritium than one would find in a collar or pair of shackles. Worst of all was how it came away on her fingers. In principle, this substance could be used to coat the tip of the blade or the point of an arrow and once the metal pierced a mage’s skin then the dimeritium powder would come away and stick to them. In small quantities, it would only weaken them, but without knowing that dimeritium had gotten inside their bodies, the inflicted mage might never recover their full magical capacity and ultimately might die from an infected wound that healers are puzzled they cannot heal.

This substance was a game-changer, and there was only one person Tissaia had ever seen in possession of something remotely akin to it. The old man confirmed her suspicions.

“A present from Nilfgaard,” he said, and kicked the edge of the neat with the leather-clad boot that had recently been buried in her stomach. “Paid us handsomely to kill you when you came for their girl, and we keep out word around these parts.”

The old man held the dagger where she could see it and brought the hilt down on her head. The world went dark and when Tissaia came to she was standing on the platform in the village with firewood being piled at her feet and a sense that maybe going out to get the girl had not been in everyone’s best interest – least of all hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst and humour, I hear you ask. I know, it's a little weird, but at least that makes my work stand out... right? God I hope this isn't terrible
> 
> If you have enjoyed what I have written thus far, please do consider leaving a comment to let me know what you think. You can also reblog my post on Tumblr (Eileniessa) and send me messages using that platform (you do not need an account to send a message into my inbox).
> 
> Part 2 will come out on Thursday. Hope to see you then Xx


	2. Chapter 2

The rope around her wrists was bruising and her hands had been tied behind the wooden pole in the centre of the stage that her shoulder blades were digging into. A dimeritium collar had been clasped around her neck and the skin underneath was warm, raw and sticky from prolonged contact with the metal.

At a guess, Tissaia thought there was somewhere between thirty to forty heads gathered around her, and a handful of them were stacking five household’s worth of firewood and tinder at the bottom of the stage and around her feet. It seemed that everyone in Direfall had come out to watch the spectacle of the famed, and supposedly mighty, Rectoress of Aretuza burn to death in their dirty little village square. _What a way go_ , Tissaia thought to herself. For a hundred years she’d done nothing but serve the people of the continent and she had survived dozens of assassinations attempts and battles to die at the hands of some armed peasants. If the world would please grant her one final mercy, don’t let them put that on her gravestone.

The villagers finished adding fuel to her pyre and the village elder that had lured her into the house came up onto the stage. He was holding a flaming torch in his right hand and a loaded crossbow in the other. Though from the angle she couldn’t be certain, Tissaia thought she saw the same substance that had been on the net on the tip of the loaded bolt. Tissaia wondered if they’d added any of the paint to the tips of their pitchforks. They were the traditional tools of a witch hunt, after all. The old man held the torch near her face and Tissaia would have flinched away from the heat had her head not been bound to the stake by a gag digging into the corners of her mouth. Yes, there was a rather high possibility that she was, in a matter of minutes, going to burn to death, but Tissaia couldn’t help but hope whatever piece of cloth they’d put in her mouth was clean. Judging by the taste it left on her tongue, however, it probably wasn’t, not by a long shot.

The old man leant forwards and brushed the shell of her right ear with his lips. “Fringilla sends her regards,” he said in a distinctly Nilfgaardian accent. _An agent,_ Tissaia thought, it made sense. There was no way the villagers could be this organized without someone with tactical knowledge and experience. The revelation made her feel slightly less embarrassed about getting caught, but only a little. “The empire would like to thank you in advance for your assistance. What use is a trap without some prize bait?”

The realization hit her smack in the face and the horror of what she had done choked her already starving lungs. When she did not return to Aretuza others would come looking for her and one by one they would get caught in the mage trap and burned at the stake. Fringilla had played her, and her death would only be the beginning. Who knew how many of her students would die for her mistake? She should never have left Aretuza so unprepared.

The Nilfgaardian agent stepped back. He turned towards the villagers gathered around the front of the platform and held the lit torch aloft. “Who wants to see the witch burn?” he shouted.

Direfall cheered and with one last smile at Tissaia’s misfortune, the agent jumped off the stage and threw the torch onto the tinder. The wind picked up the flame and it spread like wildfire. The tinder burned to cinders and the flames licked at the heap of branches and split logs leaning against the platform at an angle and pointing at Tissaia’s face. The fire encircled her completely and sweat started to soak her dress as the heat rose while the fire climbed ever closer.

The smoke caught in the wind and, to add insult to injury, blew in her face. Between the rolled-up piece of cloth blocking her airway and her damaged lungs and throat, Tissaia could hardly breathe. She coughed and spluttered and while the fire neared the stage she felt herself getting light-headed. At this rate, she would likely pass out from or die because of smoke inhalation before the fire could burn her. It was a small comfort but at this point, she would take what she could get and suffocating seemed like a quicker and less painful way to go then slowly burning to death.

Tissaia’s eyes watered from the smoke (she did not cry – she was a sorceress dammit) and a tear slipped off her chin. She did not see where it dropped. Her head was stuck looking over the heads of the crowd paying witness to her death.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tissaia saw the fire surpass the height of the platform and the recently sanded planks caught ablaze. She could feel the heat through the soles of her travelling boots and took a deep breath, but her eyes fought to stay open. It seemed her lungs had healed better than she thought – how life liked such ironic and cruel twists of fate. The fire stalked towards her ankles and Tissaia braced herself for the pain and closed her eyes, lest the villagers see the fear inside them. The air around her cooled and Tissaia wondered if it was death’s presence that she sensed by her side. She marvelled at how oddly familiar it felt and the way it seemed to still her heart and calm her senses. Perhaps death was not so terrible after all. But how could she know when she had been spared its embrace? It had chosen to take the villagers instead.

The last wisps of smokes from the burnt logs and charred stage were chased away by the wind, which was blowing away from Tissaia and into the crowd, and it had taken the heat and the fire with. The supporting beams that made up the ground floor of the skeleton house were being consumed by the flames the Nilfgaardian agent had set on her, and a three of the slanted houses opposite the stage and in front of Tissaia were engulfed in it too. The fire had been pulled off her pyre and carried to the houses. Simply putting it out would have been too simple and too kind for Yennefer. She wasn’t in the habit of letting people get away unscathed and this time around, Tissaia couldn’t fault her for it. She was pretty pissed off too.

Tissaia can’t see her yet, but she felt Yennefer’s magic pulsating in the air around her. The villagers scattered with their tails tucked between their legs. This wasn’t the type of sorceress they had bargained for. They preferred them caught by in the trap, but it hadn’t been reset and their bait was still cooking. They hadn’t counted on Yennefer coming quite so soon, but they should have. If anybody had thought Yennefer paranoid before Sodden just you wait until the saw what she was like now.

Yennefer came around the stage and Tissaia tried to shake her head and tell her to run but the gag muffled her warnings and rendered her words unintelligible. She watched Yennefer run up the steps felt her aurora fill the space where her aurora would have been if not for the collar on her neck. It was nice and deeply satisfying to have Yennefer’s magic and presence against her skin, especially when she could not feel that same energy inside her. The thought that she had almost died without being whole, without being connected to the magic that had been her constant through the centuries, sickened her. It was vile and unnatural that any mage might draw their last breath without feeling that part of themselves, their inherent magic, return to the source.

“What have they done to you?” Yennefer said when she reached the top of the steps. She moved in front of Tissaia, pulled down her gag, and took a knife out of her pocket.

“Trap,” Tissaia croaked. “Leave. Dimeritium powder from Nilf- Nilfgaard.”

“Fucking bastards,” Yennefer shouted.

Her bosom pressed against Tissaia’s chest as she reached behind her and cut her hands free. Tissaia slumped forwards and Yennefer caught her under the arms and by the waist. She pulled her to the other side of the stake, the villagers had all fled to the other side of Direfall, and held her up with a hand on her hip and her body pressed against her.

Tissaia’s head dropped onto Yennefer’s shoulder. “Go,” she said.

“Not without you,” Yennefer said, and lifted up Tissaia’s chin. “I need to pick the lock.”

Yennefer turned Tissaia around and pushed her up against the stake. Some of Tissaia’s hair came loose when Yennefer picked two hairpins out of her bun and put them in the keyhole on the back of the dimeritium collar.

“Why am I not surprised you know how to pick a lock,” said Tissaia.

“It’s a useful skill,” said Yennefer.

Tissaia knew that, otherwise she wouldn’t have bothered to learn the skill herself all those centuries ago. It paid to be prepared, and all that.

The movement of her hairpins in the lock made Tissaia wince and she gritted her teeth. Her neck was dreadfully sore, and no doubt looked rather frightful, or would once the collar had been removed. She probably had some first-degree burns on her neck which meant an extra course of treatment to take alongside what she had already been doing for her lung and throat – oh joy.

“Almost there,” said Yennefer.

She pushed the pins hard against the back of Tissaia’s neck and the lock popped open. Yennefer tore the collar off Tissaia and threw it behind her as far as she could. A flood of magic rushed into Tissaia’s body and filled her to the brim. She channelled it to her fingertips and saw her hands glow with a bright blue light that washed over her neck and eased her damaged skin. Tissaia sighed. The magic felt wonderful. She felt like herself again.

“Come on,” said Yennefer.

She pulled Tissaia’s left arm over her shoulder and wrapped an arm about her waist. Tissaia pushed off the stake with her hand and staggered. _Concussion_ , Tissaia thought, from getting smacked on the head – twice.

Yennefer tightened her grip on Tissaia’s waist and pulled her up. “Can you handle a portal?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Tissaia. She didn’t think her body would be particularly happy about using one, but it was better than the alternatives. Fighting, or running away.

Yennefer held out her left hand and the air in front of her began to swirl and ripple. The portal would open any minute now. While Yennefer concentrated, Tissaia looked over her shoulder.

She didn’t see it so much as she felt it coming. Tissaia leant into Yennefer’s shoulder and pushed her. Yennefer staggered and stepped three paces to the left. Tissaia was dragged along with her by the arm at her waist and a burst of pain shot across her lower back, up her spine and down her legs when the crossbow bolt that the village elder, the Nilfgaardian agent, had been aiming at Yennefer pierced Tissaia’s lower back. Her legs went limp and it took everything she had left to pull the tainted bolt out of her back before the dimeritium got into her system or Yennefer tried to take her through a portal, which would destabilize in the presence of even the slightest trace of that metal.

“No,” Yennefer screamed. She caught Tissaia with both arms and lowered her to the floor, unable to bear her full weight. She put Tissaia’s head in her lap and then her head shot up and Tissaia felt the lightning dancing on her fingertips. The Nilfgaardian was toast.

When Yennefer had dealt with the infiltrator, she turned her attention back to the portal. The unmistakable sound of an angry mob with mage killing on the mind and the tools to pull it off was drawing closer. The outline of a portal appeared on Tissaia’s left. For a moment, it wavered but then stabilized. Yennefer shifted under Tissaia’s head, moving into a kneeling position and wrapping her right arm around Tissaia’s waist.

“No time,” said Tissaia. “Leave me.” She tried to pull off Yennefer’s hand but barely managed to make it shake.

“Are you out of your mind?” Yennefer screamed. She lifted Tissaia off the ground and pulled her over her shoulder.

Tissaia couldn’t see it, all she had was a view of Yennefer’s arse and the burnt floorboards, but she guessed that Yennefer had caught the portal before it closed and re-stabilized it because, as a group of villagers with bows, swords and (yes she had been right) pitchforks rounded the corner Yennefer stepped forwards. Magic forced its way through Tissaia’s body and she caught a change in the light and a crispness to the air before she passed out.

* * *

“Tissaia, calm down,” Yennefer said as she held Tissaia’s wrists above her head.

Tissaia blinked away the tears in her eyes and tried to catch her breath. Her heart was hammering against her chest and her skin felt warm and sticky with sweat. It was like her training days at Aretuza all over again. How many nights had she woken up screaming from the memory of her conduit moment so recently brought to mind by her Rectoress’ latest round of probing? She had lost count. Tissaia closed her eyes and concentrated on getting her breathing under control. Her ragged, desperate breathes had left her throat sore and her chest heavy.

Yennefer let go of her wrists and Tissaia felt her feather-light touch on her head as she brushed the hair from her face. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” She moved her hand down Tissaia’s face and stroked her cheek.

Her cold fingers felt good against Tissaia’s clammy skin, and comforting too, though she wasn’t sure why. The thought of being cared for, of being coddled, had often brought a tinge of pink to Tissaia’s cheeks. She was supposed to be infallible and strong (they don’t give the title of Archmistress to any old sorceress), and she shouldn’t need anyone’s help – she shouldn’t need to be looked after. Yet here she was, lying in bed, someone else’s bed, with one of her students (a former student, that was an important detail), stroking her face. Tissaia thought that she had already fallen pretty far off her pedestal, but apparently, there had been a little bit further for her to go.

Tissaia opened her eyes and saw Yennefer looking down at her with a concerned expression that simply didn’t suit her. “Yen-“ Tissaia’s voice got caught in her throat and she coughed.

Yennefer moved away and leaned to her right. The mattress rose and sank again under Yennefer’s weight when she came back into view.

“Drink this,” she said, and raised a goblet to Tissaia’s lips.

Tissaia parted her lips and Yennefer poured a little water into her throat. It had an odd, slightly sweet taste to it that Tissaia couldn’t quite place. She swallowed her first mouthful and the pain in her throat dulled.

“I enchanted the goblet,” Yennefer said without prompting. “Drinking from it will help heal your throat and vocal cords.” She placed the goblet back against Tissaia’s lips

Tissaia wrinkled her nose and turned her head to the side. “It tastes strange,” she said.

“I’m more concerned about your health than your taste buds,” said Yennefer. Tissaia was inclined to agree, but she had a foul taste in her mouth from the cloth gag and the enchanted water wasn’t helping matters.

“Where am I?” Tissaia asked.

Lying on her back in the bed, Tissaia couldn’t make out much of the room beside the sloping ceiling and the white painted walls, but that was enough for her to know that she hadn’t been here. She had a knack for remembering these soft of things.

“My house in Vengerberg,” said Yennefer. “Aretuza was too far.”

“How long was I out?”

“Three days. I had to put you in a healing sleep.”

“How-“

“You need to finish this,” Yennefer said, tapping her finger against the goblet. “No more questions until you do.”

Tissaia opened her mouth and Yennefer gave her another drink. After six mouthfuls she finished the goblet and Yennefer set it down on a side table next to a pitcher of water, and a vase of lilacs.

“How are you feeling?” Yennefer asked. “Can you eat something?”

“I’m fine,” said Tissaia, “and I don’t want anything. I ought to be getting back to Aretuza.” She pushed herself up into a sitting position and grasped the bed covers.

Yennefer caught her wrist and pulled her hand away. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said.

“That’s not for you to decide,” said Tissaia.

She tried to pull her hand away and Yennefer tightened her hold.

“I’ll tie you down to this bed if I have to, you know I will. You’re too weak to travel through a portal, it could kill you.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” said Tissaia.

“You’re not invincible, Tissaia,” Yennefer shouted. “I still can’t believe you were stupid enough to leave Aretuza and go out by yourself in your condition-“ Tissaia tried and failed to kick the bedsheets off. Her breath caught in her throat. “-If I hadn’t noticed that you were missing and gone looking for you then…” Yennefer stopped and stared at her. “What is it? Are you in pain?” she asked.

Tissaia swallowed and went to grasp at the amulet at her throat, but it wasn’t there. Tears pricked at her eyes.

Yennefer let go of her hand and held Tissaia’s chin in her fingers, turning her face towards her. “Say something,” she said.

“I don’t think you’re going to need to tie me down,” said Tissaia. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“What?” said Yennefer. She jumped up from the bed and pulled down the sheets covering Tissaia’s dignity and a beautifully made black silk nightgown that smelt of lilac and gooseberries. It seemed like Yennefer had dressed Tissaia in her finest lingerie. She did care, be it in her own way, and that way seldom called for asking permission.

“Would you stop doing that,” Tissaia said through gritted teeth when Yennefer rolled her onto her front. She didn’t appreciate being turned and thrown about like a rag doll.

“Can you wiggle your toes?” Yennefer asked.

“No,” said Tissaia.

“Try to bend your knee.”

Tissaia pushed herself up onto her elbows and looked over her shoulder. “Yennefer-“

“Stop making excuses and just try.”

Tissaia furrowed her brow and tried to get her leg to move. Nothing. “I can’t do it,” she said, and rested her forehead on the pillows. “I’m paralyzed.”

“I don’t understand,” said Yennefer. “The wound in your back has healed. You should be fine.”

“The bolt, it must have damaged my nerve or spinal cord,” said Tissaia. “No magic you know could fix an injury like that.”

“Could you leave the insults aside for one moment. I’m trying to help me. Fuck knows why I bother.”

Tissaia pushed herself onto her back and propped herself up with the pillows. “It was not a criticism,” she said. “Few possess such knowledge.”

“What about the healers in Aretuza?” Yennefer asked.

“Liliana can perform the necessary spell,” said Tissaia. “I have seen her do it before.”

“Then I guess we’re going to Aretuza after all.”

Yennefer moved up the bed and bent forward. She put one arm underneath Tissaia’s legs and tried to put the other behind her back. Tissaia pushed against Yennefer’s shoulder to stop her.

“No, I can’t go back,” she said.

“I thought you said Liliana could help you,” said Yennefer.

“I cannot let the others see me this way,” said Tissaia

Yennefer laughed in her face. “The great Tissaia de Vries, thwarted by her hubris. Are you willing to die to save your precious reputation?”

“It’s not about-“

“I don’t care what you think,” said Yennefer. “I’m taking you to get help whether you like it or not, and as things are, I don’t think you can put up much of a fight.” She forced her hand behind Tissaia’s back and picked her up.

“Put me down,” said Tissaia. “I have not asked for your help.”

“But you’re getting it,” said Yennefer. “Open a portal to your quarters.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“Either you open the portal, or I’ll have to sling you over my shoulder and take you in through the front gates. Which would you prefer?”

“Neither. I want to stay here,” said Tissaia.

“Why?” Yennefer asked. “Is your bed not as soft as mine?”

“I want you to look after me,” said Tissaia. She didn’t want anyone else seeing her this way. But there was more to it than that. She wanted Yennefer to look after her and to stay with her through her recovery. Being vulnerable around her didn’t feel wrong. It felt kind of nice. Tissaia brushed her knuckles along Yennefer’s jaw. “Please,” she said.

Yennefer shook her head. “I can’t help you. I don’t know how.”

“I can teach you,” said Tissaia. “I know that you are capable of the magic I speak of. Let me stay and help you finish what you started. If I must be cared for then I want it to be your hands that hold me.”

Yennefer let out a slow breath and rubbed Tissaia’s hipbone. “Fine,” she said.

After settling Tissaia in bed and refilling her glass of water, Tissaia could not keep the soft croak from her voice, Yennefer went to fetch some food from her stores. Tissaia usually turned her nose up at eating in bed but seeing as Yennefer had only reluctantly agreed to take her on as a patient she didn’t feel she should test her limits with a request for the dining table to be set. They ate their breakfast of fresh bread, cheese and grapes in silence, and Tissaia washed it down with apple juice that Yennefer insisted on serving her from the magic goblet she’d made. The sweetness helped to get rid of the taste in her mouth from the cloth, but she had to follow it with a handful of grapes to get rid of the strange tang the magic left on her tongue.

“I’m curious,” said Tissaia. “How did you find me so soon after I left?”

Yennefer took a large chunk out of her bread and took her time chewing. “That brooch I gave you,” she said, referring to the enchanted object Tissaia had pinned to her underclothes to ease her breathing. “It contains a metal from Zerrikania that can’t be found on the continent.”

Tissaia dropped her piece of cheese. “You gave me a tracking device?”

“Unintentionally,” said Yennefer,

“Are you telling me that you couldn’t use another metal instead?”

“I could have.”

“I guess I should have known you had ulterior motives,” said Tissaia.

Yennefer shrugged. “It saved your life, didn’t it?” she said.

“But it almost cost me yours.”

“You shouldn’t have taken that bolt for me,” said Yennefer. She took the plate from Tissaia’s lap and put it on the dresser opposite the bed then turned around. “I could have handled it. Look what it’s done to you.”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” said Tissaia. “It might have killed you.”

“My life isn’t more important than yours,” shouted Yennefer

“It is to me,” said Tissaia.

Yennefer huffed and turned towards the window with her arms crossed over her chest. This is going to be harder than I thought, Tissaia said to herself. It was glaringly obvious that Yennefer wasn’t going to forgive her for slipping out of Aretuza by herself quite so easily, which, all things considered, was understandable. If it had been a matter of Tissaia betraying her word then the situation would be easier to resolve, but it was not. The wound went deeper than that. Tissaia had almost died, and that had scared Yennefer shitless.

“Yennefer,” Tissaia said, and held out her hand.

Yennefer eyed her for a moment then came over to the bed, sat down on the edge, and took Tissaia’s hand in her lap.

Tissaia ran her fingers through Yennefer’s hair and placed a kiss on her forehead. “Thank you, for saving me,” she said.

“I hope you’re keeping tabs because I believe you owe me one,” said Yennefer.

“I took a bolt for you,” said Tissaia. “That makes us even.”

“I suppose it does,” said Yennefer. She smiled and traced patterns on the back of Tissaia’s hand. “Would you like to see the garden?” she asked after a pause.

“Yes,” said Tissaia. “I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst prompt for brazenedminstrel on Tumblr: Yennaia, Y: "You're safe now." T: "I can't feel my legs."
> 
> Hope this didn't come out too strange xD
> 
> If you have enjoyed what I have written thus far, please do consider leaving a comment to let me know what you think. You can also reblog my post on Tumblr (Eileniessa) and send me messages using that platform (you do not need an account to send a message into my inbox).
> 
> PS: Next up is a parent AU. I will likely post the chapter in a week (Thursday)


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